


After Armageddon

by anniesburg



Category: American Horror Story: Apocalypse
Genre: Established Relationship, F/M, Femdom, Michael subbing, Oral Sex, Pegging, Spanking, one shot series
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-10-01
Updated: 2018-11-29
Packaged: 2019-07-23 13:54:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,770
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16160258
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/anniesburg/pseuds/anniesburg
Summary: The misanthropes next door are probably conceiving a Damien.





	1. To Annihilate Each Decade.

**Author's Note:**

> top your local antichrist.

“Fuck, would you---”

“Watch your mouth.” each word is accompanied by a steady thrust, your hips working overtime to keep him from getting too greedy. He’s impatient by nature, a little on the pampered side. 

“Have I put you in a bad mood?” his upward-tilted gaze, lidded and brushed at the edges with red eyeshadow meets yours. There’s a scoff cutting the warm air before you can stop it. You bring your hand down on the curve of his ass, that shuts him up. 

“You’re nothing but trouble, even when you’re begging for a good, hard fu---” his languid form draped over the bed, soft beneath you goes rigid. Michael’s again on all fours, gripping velvet blankets and pushing his hips back in time with your pace. He surprises you again, you smile. 

“Now who needs to watch their tongue?” he sounds ravenous, hungry even as you grip his waist. His skin will have your fingerprint-bruises painting them for days. 

But that grows boring, the dull slap of flesh on flesh is tiresome after too long. Too much of one kind of glory, as Michael once put it. You press your hand to the back of his neck. With a force you know he’s fond of, you pin his face to the mattress. 

“Still you, you’re so mouthy.” and now you’re breathless, he likes his small victories. You resolve to punish him by slowing the intensity of your lovemaking. His hips stutter back, desperate, near-mewling. 

“And here I thought you liked it when I made noise.” there’s a plaintive edge to his tone that’s so close to delicious, all worth it in the end. You’re in no rush, he’s the hedonist. 

“Your mouth is for moaning. If I hear anything else from you, I’ll find something to occupy it.” idle threats, neither of you have the energy for intricate sex this evening. He’s rocking back into you more gently now, a sharp contrast to the rutting from earlier. Michael’s always enough to give you whiplash. 

Chains and leather, latex and gas masks. It’s like they’re compensating for something, you mumbled in an adult shop that was dirty in every sense of the word. You ran your finger over boxes of toys, looking for the perfect fit. 

“Promise?” he coos, and it earns him another, harder slap from your free hand. He bites back a squeal but he’s never flinched away. He’s stronger than he looks.

“Changed your mind?” you ask, he looks confused. Craning his neck to look at you over his shoulder has to be bad for him. You take your hand off his neck and brush his matted, blond curls out of his face. “because your tone is telling me that you don’t want to get fucked after all.” 

His expressions truly are a gift. You could kiss him and thank him for that brief flash of horror before his sultry smile returns. Instead, you drag your hand over his cheek. Michael turns his head further, his lips touch your fingers . 

“I’ll be good.” he concedes. 

“Liar.” you reply. The glass cock between your legs is pushed into him quite suddenly, one well-aimed thrust sending him reeling and gasping. Then, you pull out. 

“Wait---” Michael’s voice sounds annoyed, like he hadn’t expected you to go through with it. You haven’t. 

“Calm down, baby. Lie on your back, I want to see your eyes.” you help him in your own way, pushing on his pointy hip and rolling him over. He’s pliant, languid, unwilling to show his own eagerness. Michael’s tendency to seize power where he can find it pervades his every hobby. 

His spread legs cage you, wrapping loosely around your waist. Still, you remain outside of him, leaning forward to repeat the same motion of pushing his hair out of his face. You’ll brush it later, maybe. There’s a moment of hesitation, your face close to his before you steal that kiss you’ve been thinking about. It’s the only thing approaching chaste. 

“Fuck me.” Michael demands, when does he do anything but?

“In a minute, what happened to being good?” now it’s his turn to scoff, but you enjoy the hitch in his breath as you turn your attentions elsewhere. Sitting back on your thighs, you let your mind wander.

He has a nice cock, you can admit it. It’s half-firm, big enough to fit inside you snugly. The span of your fully flexed fingers, from little to index can’t quite match its length. Your thumbs caress the underside, flanking the thick vein running from hilt to head. 

“We should get you pierced,” you mention, “right here. Jacob’s ladders are kind of sexy, don’t you think?” he leans up on his elbows, watching you work and repressing his own urge to buck his hips. 

“I didn’t know the outposts catered to that particular need.” he drawls. His head tilts back, his boredom evident despite the attention you’re giving his cock. He wants it in his ass, you can tell. 

“A girl can dream.” he lifts an eyebrow. 

“Do you know what I’m dreaming about?” his eyes find yours again and you’re suddenly reminded of why you wanted him on his back in the first place. You’ve never seen such eyes. 

He’s hard, throbbing in your hands and you let him go. Your fist wraps around the thick appendage strapped to your waist. It’s still slick from the little, black bottle of lube on the nightstand. Pushing the curved tip against his ass, you decide it’s safe to tease him just a bit more. 

“You want it? How bad?” you ask.

“I’ll repeat myself, fuck me,” Michael pauses, as if to think, “or I’ll rip your lungs out.” there’s a brief shiver up your spine that you can’t help but feel does not go unnoticed. 

“Tempting offer.” doing your best to sound disinterested, you move your hips closer to his. There’s a moment where he looks angry enough to make good on his promise, and you thrust inside him. You don’t know what’s going on in his head on a good day, and his jokes only ever read as such to your ears. 

But now he’s got what he wanted, incorrigible thing. When he has his way, he’s quite pleasant, shuddering as you fill him again. 

“Better?” you ask, he seems unable to answer beyond a nod. “Good baby.” despite the slight sarcasm in your tone, he seems genuinely appreciative of the compliment. His back arches, eyes sliding closed. 

With the position altered, your palm meets his thigh instead. His eyes fly open. 

“Like that, look at me.” another nod, the adversity gone from his demeanour. He wants to be good, you know it. He wants you to say it again, you stay quiet. 

Holding his hips down with enough force to keep him steady, you begin to rock into him again. His arms fold above his head, loosely gripping the iron bars that make up the headboard. 

There is very little in the way of conversation as you give him what he wants. The song of his moans splits the silence in two as you open him up. Your pace is as devastating as before, your heart thundering against your ribs hard enough to crack them. His gaze doesn’t depart from yours again, the red blush on his cheeks more becoming than he knows. 

He tries, of course, to reclaim control of his hips. Michael’s strong, moving hard against your hands. You hold him down and placate him with quicker, shallow thrusts that catch somewhere pleasurable inside him. He seizes, spasms like he’s possessed and goes limp again. 

“Good,” you say, to his immense pleasure, “so good.” 

You know when he’s going to come, you watch his chest rise and fall. And then you’ve done it again. He finishes on his chest, with you to help him through it. When there’s nothing left to give, you begin to slow your thrusts. 

Michael looks like he wants to curl in on himself. Tired as he is and in need of no further satisfaction now, you throw yourself down on the bed beside him. He curls around you, instead. 

His blond head is pillowed by your breasts, one arm thrown over your shoulder. He lets you touch his hair, you’re almost too exhausted to be thankful for what a compliment it is. 

There’s another heart thumping against your chest, you suppose it must be his.


	2. The Hell of it.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> top your local antichrist 2: electric boogaloo

“No petting.” he sounds quite put-out as you trace your fingers over his reddened ass. The act of gentleness strays closer to taboo than anything else you get up to.

“Maybe this is your punishment, baby.” keeping the joy out of your voice is impossible, it makes him shift for the first time since you pulled him over your lap.

Pulled is somewhat misleading. It implies he came unwillingly, the reality is that he stretched out across your knees with very little resistance. The catlike arch of his spine is begging to be touched, your hands stray upwards, feeling ribs beneath skin and the bump of his spine. Michael’s beautiful.

But to keep him complacent, you drag your nails down his back to the curve of his ass. Hearing him hiss and sigh with gratitude is like music. You haven’t hit him hard enough to draw blood, but he’s sporting bruises from the top of his rear to the beginning of his thighs. Sitting should be fun for him in the coming days. 

“I know what you want, it’s just a question of if you’ve earned it.” you say, the nonchalance in your voice stemming from years of experience with his brand of arousal. Acrylic nails cleaving open the flesh of his back excites him like no other, and sometimes it’s impossible to refrain. 

It’s clear where he’d like your attention to be, he lifts his hips just slightly before pressing his pelvis into your thigh. Michael’s hard, you ignore him. 

“You want more?” it’s almost rhetorical, the way you say it. You’re surprised by the response. 

“Yes.” no please from him. Never, never. His sigh is close to orgasmic as you conform to his wishes, you alternate bringing your palm down onto his ass. Blood vessels bloom, red dots colouring his skin a deep burgundy over a rosy blush. When you stop, he whines. 

“Enough of that, what have we got here?” his hips, rocking semi-robotically into you seize as you grasp his cock. “You’re dripping all over the rug, and on my shoes.” you inform him. It’s only a bit of an exaggeration. You enjoy the sound of his surprise as you wipe a bead of glossy precome from the end of his stiff cock.

Perhaps to his surprise, you reach forward, pressing your fingers against his lower lip. Michael opens his mouth, obedient as always. He licks your ring and index fingers clean without needing to be asked.

“Good,” you offer up, the praise doing its job. His eyes close, his shoulders that were so stiff with embarrassment now relaxed again. His hips start to work at your thigh, Michael’s tongue circling the tips of your fingers. “enough, enough.”

Another firm slap to the back of his thigh stops him where he is. You extract your fingers from his mouth.

“What else have I missed?” you ask, sensing someone’s becoming annoyed with your recent fondness of rhetorical questions. You begin touching his ass again, skating fingers over reddened flesh and parting his cheeks to get a closer look.

He groans as your attention turns to his asshole.

“Here? Yes, I think so. I think you like that.” his hips remain still, insistent thrusts dulled in favour of looking at you curiously over his shoulder. You catch him staring and he averts his eyes.

You decline to proceed until two fingers on your right hand are slick with the contents of the bottle of lube lying beside you. That done, you push them somewhat carelessly into him. Scissoring absent-mindedly through the gasping and mewling, a question occurs to you.

“You’re so loose. You went to an all-boys school?” his voice is thick with desire and sarcasm.

“What has that got to do with anything?” Michael tries to push himself up onto his elbows. An insistent shove with your unoccupied hand discourages such behaviour.

“Everything,” you mumble. “If—“

“It’s because your cock was splitting me open under an hour ago.” clearly he’s forgotten how much your swats can sting. He falls silent.

“Don’t interrupt.” you curl your fingers, brushing somewhere lovely that makes him spasm. “does baby need a pillow to hug?” there’s a cruel smile in your voice.

There’s a choked sound, a stuttering of bony hips before he falls silent. This annoys you.

“If it feels good, moan.” your encouragement is far from gentle. Pressing your index finger into his prostate.

“You—“ he gasps, just like you hoped. Michael can’t bite back much more, he’s losing quickly. A guttural sound leaves him, a mix of his usual whines and something far more menacing. But he does not rise to smite you or strike you down. He accepts his fate, the way you make him feel with shuddering breaths and overworked thrusts.

“Good, good,” you say and you mean it. He knows it, it keeps him from whipping himself into a needless frenzy. As fond as you are of dismantling him, it’s easy to lose track of all the little pieces. You decrease the force of your fingers, prodding gently inside him and feeling him clench.

He shakes in your lap but manages to find some pace. Michael isn’t close, he would tell you if he were. It’s his fun too, you’ve come to understand, and he wants it extended to span the width of the room. He’s left spread thin and at your mercy.

“Tired?” you ask. He’s pitched his fit, bucked back against your hand. Now he stills, conserving his energy until he can lead a half-revolution within the four walls of the bedroom. Sweet thing, you think, playing games.

“Frustrated.” he croaks and you’re reminded that Michael isn’t heartless. It’s a bit of a blow to your synapsis, throwing you off makes him boyishly triumphant. With a roll of your eye, you tap your index and middle finger again against his prostate. His mouth parts to gasp again, his eyes falling closed.

“Maybe you need a break. Selfish boy, you haven’t considered how frustrated I may be.” those blue eyes snap open and you could thank some higher being for the look on his face. You just adore it, when the power passes thoroughly to you. He could fight back, he could make you give him everything and leave you with nothing.

But he likes it, the way he whines when your fingers retract and leave him empty tells you as much. He’s needy, breathless and on the verge of something satisfying. But pulling him back from it, you know, is infinitely more satisfying.

“You’re not being very useful lying across my lap like a spoiled kitty.” he scoffs, turning his head away from yours. His hips which had been previously, gently rolling into your thigh cease with that comment. It shall be missed. You touch the curve of his ass absent-mindedly, gently. And then you press your palm to his thin hip and push hard.

You don’t let him topple, catching his arm before he loses balance and falls. But he’s shaken, taken aback. At a more controlled pace he shifts out of your lap, you open your legs.

“Didn’t even have to tell you to get on your knees, good boy.” whether Michael finds your praise genuinely annoying is unknown, all your sure of is the flush burning at his cheeks. “You know what to do.”

“And then you’ll give me what I want?” he retorts. You lean forward, turning his gaze away from the apex between your thighs up to yours.

“I’ll give you what you need, baby. After.” it’s a promise, he trusts you. It took so long, years of prodding and pressing at sensitive spots. You’ll deliver, but first you’d like to put him to work. “Go on,” you encourage.

He puts his hands on your inner thighs, pushing them apart and settling between them like a missing piece in a puzzle. He’s the engineer of his own paradise, stacked in his favour and he touches you like he has time on his side. You sigh, stoking a fire in him. Michael’s desire to please still takes you aback on occasion.

You mumble words of encouragement, tidbits of praise that he craves. Your fingers work through his hair, slightly matted from other activities and too much tugging. You’re gentle now as he presses open-mouth kisses to your knees. If he wants to take his time, who are you to deny him?

Michael’s good, doesn’t need you pushing your calf between his legs to keep him from touching himself. He’s learned his lesson over and over, you’re proud to watch him work with the knowledge he’ll be rewarded. His tongue flicks at your innermost thigh, making you gasp and tighten your grip at the back of his scalp.

“Careful.” he reminds you, much to your embarrassment. Despite that,

“Sorry, baby.” you mumble and lessen the intensity of the way you have him grabbed. Part of you knows he would let you tear at his hair if you said it firmly enough. But the comfortable space the two of you inhabit is never forcible enough, you would never demand it and he would never allow it. Michael hums, pleased with the nickname as his affections turn more inward still.

He gives your slit a cautious lick, hesitant and quickly growing bold. Your eyes close, his face flush against your pelvis and rendering him unable to appreciate it. Michael knows what he’s doing, even as he stumbles through the motions. He’s distracted, you understand why. It’s a conscious choice on your part not to grab him and force him to focus. 

You’re free with your praise as ever, it does the trick. Your hums, gasps and soft sighs as his tongue flicks over your clit seem to encourage him more than any pressure to the back of his head could. It’s an exercise for the both of you, he keeps you in line. 

Michael nips at your labia, making you hiss and look down at him. He pushes back against your hands, you offer no true resistance as his line of sight touches yours. He licks his lips, slowly and deliberately. He meant to bite you and he asks without asking what you intend to do about it. 

“I didn’t say stop.” your voice wavers, it makes him smirk. He hadn’t expected a fight, and he lowers his head to resume his good work.


	3. People Cellar

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> let your local antichrist top you... sort of.

“Close your eyes, Michael,” you don’t like Outpost Three with its invented theatrics. He’s more focused than ever, cooking a scheme and pulling strings but it’s in a most undesirable fashion. 

Miss Venable hasn’t made him feel anything, she isn’t enough to make him feel anything. But bitterness and isolation are his hallmarks. Michael’s moody, you’ve grown quite sick of seeing it. 

His back’s to you, staring at his computer. His fingers fall rhythmically on the keys, typing emails and watching surveillance footage. Orders, always orders. Michael’s acknowledgement comes on slow, a gradual build as he turns his head a fraction towards you. For a second you wonder if he’ll require further coaxing. He doesn’t, but still you ask,

“Don’t you remember this game?” your voice is breathy and touched by nostalgia. He isn’t overly fond of faux-innocence, but reminding him of your shared history is good fun. He turns bodily in his seat so that he’s facing you, he’s resigned himself to playing. 

His eyes close after a few beats. A few beats more and he nods. Your smile is bright but he can’t see it. You stay put at the other end of the room, pushing the door closed and feeling for a lock that isn’t there. Vicious annoyance nearly puts you in the same mood as him, but Michael grows impatient with every moment wasted. 

Your hands shake a bit with anticipation, lifting from your sides. Your fingers go to the knot at the nape of your neck, untying it and pulling the length of ribbon away from your throat. You watch him, searching his face for any signs of cheating. You find none and proceed to push the length of ribbon down the front of your shirt. 

“Okay, you can open your eyes,” you tell him and he doesn’t need another reminder of how to play fairly. He looks at you, standing near the wall looking nearly smug. A spring in your step, you cross the room. The ritual began the moment you spoke, it’s just a matter of following the right steps. Your hand goes to your bare neck again, showing him. 

“Where did your ribbon go?” he asks. It’s like the first time but different. He drawls, stretching out his words and denying the smirk on his mouth its full satisfaction. He knows his cues, he likes them. 

“I’ve hidden it somewhere, Michael, somewhere on my person. I want you to find it,” it isn’t necessary for you to repeat the rules, but it wasn’t necessary for him to ask either. He knows full well when you’ve put your ribbon. It’s the telling that makes it more interesting. “if you do, you get a kiss. Know that I’ll be disappointed if you don’t.” 

You’re positioned exactly at the back of is chair. Michael’s spine curves like a snake, one hand reaching out and pressing definitively against your stomach. He isn’t looking, you know it. But he’s certainly feeling, taking the excuse to touch you. His fingers move back, back against your hip and then forward again, dipping into your skirt pocket. 

“Empty,” you smile. You’ve officially deviated from the script and have invited him to do the same. Michael’s so often one for for biting scorn, it’s rare as a blue moon to see him smile, but he does. He stands, pushing the chair away and placing his other hand on the small of your back. 

It travels up to your shoulders before pausing, considering. He wants to know if he’s allowed to finish the game now. You nod. He doesn’t end it. His hand leaves your shoulder, skirting around the curve of your breast and back down your stomach. 

You’d like to grab him, to seize him by the lapels. Forget the pretence, you want to kiss him. Instead your arms stay lifeless at your side, only moving when he needs them to be moved. 

“You’re not trying very hard,” you tease. Michael’s eyes flit up from the hem of your sweater tucked into your skirt. The smile’s gone now, a look of impish curiosity hides behind his eyes. He doesn’t want you to end the game either, clearly he’s remembered why he likes it. 

“Actually,” he says, still speaking slowly. He considers his options. “you’re right.” the admittance is without caveat or parenthesis, but there’s no way for you to gloat about it. 

“Remember what I said,” you retort, hoping to spur him into meaningful action. You consider that he must think this is meaningful, touching you deliberately and enjoying in the burden of pleasure put on him. His hands trace your sides, grabbing your sweater and untucking it. Michael pushes his hand underneath, the fabric. He isn’t looking at you, but you watch the way his expression shifts when he touches your soft, giving flesh. 

His arms loop around your waist a little too easily, you’re not sure if he’s abandoned his search out of boredom. The part of you demanding order similarly demands you ask if he wants to disappoint you. He’s very particular about what he wants, less so what he needs. But you don’t ask, you stay quiet but for a soft gasp when he’s hugging you quite suddenly. 

Michael retraces his steps, his fingers are warm. His touch could carve pathways into your skin but he’s purposefully gentle, feeling your bare upper- back and sides. His hands fall but not for long. When they reposition to your ass you have to try very hard not to giggle. You don’t quite succeed, his eyes snap to yours. 

“What are you laughing about?” his second question of the night, the more serious of the two. Your eyes widen, you’ve heard him petulant before. Scary. Not stern, not yet. Not until now. 

“Nothing,” you’re quick to say, nearly tripping over a single word. He seems to like that, nothing goes to his head quite like power. 

“That’s what I thought.” and then all is silence. But the pace of his explorations does increase, he can sense that you’re becoming more rigid instead of less. You’re eager to keep playing the game and he’s stalling for time. 

“You know,” you begin, “if you can’t find it---” his hand moves quicker than lighting out from underneath your sweater. It darts to the front of your shirt and pulls from it the ribbon that is more than a ribbon at this point. You open your mouth, something in you clearly wanting to speak. For an unknown reason, you do not. 

Michael leans in, closer to your height in the way that barely seems to matter. He’s still imposing. 

“I win,” he says and you find yourself nodding. Your skin feels cold without his hands on them, he balls the ribbon into his fist and pushes it into the pocket of his dinner jacket. He turns away from you. 

“Wait---” you sputter. “I said,” he lifts a hand, cutting you off as he repositions the chair to face you. Michael sits again. 

“I don’t want a kiss,” he says, looking at you with his hands resting on the tops of his thighs. “I want you to sit in my lap.” let it never be said he isn’t direct. 

“Is that so?” the question leaves you before you can think about it, but you know Michael revels in a little tit for tat. Equal retaliation is impossible for most with him. You move forward and straddle him, your knees on either side of his legs. You know you’re equal enough. “cozy,” you tease as your hands settle instinctively on his shoulders. His smile is tight, forced but not in the insufferable way.

His hands don’t stay idle for long, he can resist everything except temptation. They’re touching you again, tugging at the neck of your sweater before deciding its pointless. When his fingers curl under the hem and pull up, you lift your arms and help him to remove it. 

Michael grips the back of your neck in a way that could be described as gentle. But still very firm, he tilts his head and kisses the tops of your breasts. Not quite what you had in mind, but your sigh is undeniably satisfied. 

A pause as he indulges, but you turn to look at the unlocked door. Michael’s insistent hands on your back try to pull you away before any doubt can creep into your mind. He doesn’t like Outpost Three either, all the more reason to desecrate it. 

He unhooks your bra and you’re temporarily distracted. It, too is tossed aside.

“Do you think Venable will punish us if we’re caught?” you ask, unafraid. Instead, you seem interested. It’s an invitation that goes unsent, one telling her to do her worst. Michael sneers, hardly bothering to look at your same source of concern.

“Don’t make me laugh,” he says, pressing his lips against your throat. His teeth are hot, reddening select places on the front and sides of your neck with bites and more kisses. “she’s making things up as she goes.” 

You could smile at that, your head tilted back. “Sounds familiar,” you chime. He doesn’t like it. Michael’s arms around your waist squeeze, putting pressure on your rib cage. He bites down until you’re certain he’s tasting blood. You can see it as your eyes turn up towards the ceiling, pooling in your collarbone and sliding down your breasts. He lifts his head, you look. No blood. He can see your smile this time, he swallows your image. 

He’s a little too hooked on pain, introducing deviance from deviance never fails to amuse you. Careful not to pitch yourself forward, you lean in the direction of his mouth. You take that kiss from his bloodless lips, gentle in a way that won’t encourage uncertainty.


End file.
